Rolan had been alerted by a survivor—an escapee from the clutches of the goblins—who spoke in a ragged voice of horror and hope. The survivor said there were still enslaved Tribal Warriors held captive deep in a nearby goblin-occupied cave. Their strength had been broken, but not their spirit. They needed rescue—and soon.
Wasting no time, Rolan readied his gear and marched toward the mountains the survivor had pointed out. The path was jagged and wild, the trees thinned into cruel, twisted shapes as if recoiling from what lay ahead. Soon, he caught sight of a crude goblin encampment built around the slope of a hill near the mountain base. Tents made from stitched hides swayed in the wind. In the center, red-skinned goblins danced in a frenzied circle around a bonfire. Tridents in hand, their black, spear-like tails flicked and twitched with their rhythmic chants—praises to their Demon God reverberated through the air.
Rolan narrowed his eyes. The goblins had chosen this location well; their camp blocked the only viable path to Burrow Falls—the cave where the slaves were reportedly held. It wasn't a mere camp; it was a forward defense post, set up to deter any intruders like himself.
He crept closer, crouching low and surveying their numbers. His heart thudded not from fear, but anticipation. There were at least a hundred of them, weak individually, but together, they were a tide. Still, they stood between him and the captive warriors—and he would not turn back.
He drew his weapon slowly, the polished steel catching a gleam of firelight. With a silent breath, he lunged forward, striking down the first goblin before its cry escaped. The camp erupted in chaos.
Red goblins shrieked as they scrambled for weapons. Rolan was a force of nature—his blade arced through the air with precision, slashing through flesh and sinew. Tridents clashed with his shield, their points skittering off the surface as he pressed forward. The goblins, overwhelmed in panic and confusion, were no match for his skill. He ducked low beneath a wild stab, spun, and cleaved through two enemies with one strike.
Blood sprayed the dirt. Screams echoed through the hills. One after another, the goblins fell, their chants silenced beneath the weight of steel. Rolan didn't stop—his onslaught was relentless. Bodies piled behind him. When the dust settled, the camp was a slaughterhouse. No crystals were found on the corpses—these red goblins had not been conjured but born, likely bred in the caverns of darkness.
With blood drying on his armor, Rolan pressed on. Past the camp, the road wound into the mountain's embrace. Valleys opened and narrowed again as the trail followed the course of a cold, clear river. Along the way, he dispatched stray goblins and destroyed any "seeds of evil"—twisted, pulsing growths that marked the Demon God's corruption.
As he reached a riverside, exhaustion finally caught up to him. He sat by the bank, letting the water's gentle trickle soothe his battered body. The scent of moss and cold stone surrounded him. After resting briefly, he rose and followed the river until the thunderous roar of falling water met his ears.
Towering above him was the legendary Burrow Falls. Its waters plunged from jagged cliffs into a basin below, and behind the veil of cascading liquid was a shadowy cave entrance. The ground was slick, and droplets of water clung to every surface. Ferns swayed gently in the mist, lush and vibrant. Rolan stepped forward, soaked but undeterred.
He entered the cave, water rushing around his boots, and stepped into the gloom. The entrance was guarded—two hobgoblins stood alert, their broad chests marked with tribal sigils. One was stoic and silent, while the other barked mockingly at him as he approached. Rolan didn't hesitate. He rushed forward, weapons drawn. Their strength was formidable, but Rolan was faster. After an intense exchange of blows, both hobgoblins fell, their blood running with the cave's waters.
From one corpse, Rolan retrieved a bronze key. He held it up with satisfaction—better a key than wasting time with lockpicks. The bronze door creaked open with a clunk, revealing a vast hollow chamber with a bridge suspended over a roaring underground river.
The other side of the bridge had been raised. Rolan scanned the cavern and spotted a lever atop a stone outcropping. He made his way there, dispatching more goblin sentries along the way. When he finally pulled the lever, the bridge fell with a groan, slamming into place.
"Sheriek!" Goblins across the chamber shrieked as the sound echoed. They rushed him—shields raised, weapons drawn. Rolan didn't wait. He charged, smashing into their line with brutal force. His stamina never wavered. His strikes broke through defenses, sending goblins stumbling as their arms buckled beneath the blows. His momentum shattered their formation.
Rolan cleaved through the attackers, painting
Here is your scene rewritten in grammatically correct past tense, while maintaining your original writing style and tone, and expanding it to approximately 1,000 words:
Rolan was tipped off by a survivor who had escaped the slavery of the goblins. The man, pale and ragged, spoke of surviving Tribal Warriors who were still imprisoned by a goblin tribe nearby. Their cries echoed in his memory, and their hope now rested on someone else.
And so, Rolan did not tarry. He moved immediately, heading toward the mountain the survivor had described. There, he saw the likely entrance to the cave—and a possible goblin base. It loomed above him like a beast waiting to strike.
As he advanced further, he spotted an enemy camp sprawled across the hillside. Crude tents had been pitched, and a roaring campfire burned at the center. The terrain was uneven, with small rises and dips, as the camp clung to the hill's natural form. The narrow dirt roads leading up were dug directly beside the mountain walls.
Red-skinned goblins danced wildly near the fire. There were many of them, more than he first expected. They held tridents aloft, their black, spear-like tails twitching as they chanted in unison—praises to the Demon God that made the air hum with eerie energy.
Rolan's eyes narrowed as he realized the truth—this camp stood directly in his path to Burrow Falls. He would have to go through it. That alone made him suspect this camp was not just for rest—it was placed here as an extra defense line. An obstacle for any who dared approach.
He crept closer, staying hidden to observe them more clearly. To his surprise, he counted at least a hundred red goblins. They were weak individually, but their sheer numbers could overwhelm even the mightiest warrior.
Then he acted.
Without warning, Rolan burst from cover and began his onslaught. His weapon was already drawn as he launched into the fray. Goblins screeched in alarm as he charged through their ranks. His blade slashed and smashed, blood flying as he cut down the first wave. They retaliated with remorse and fury, thrusting their tridents at him, denting and battering his shield.
More goblins rushed in, joining the fray with high-pitched shrieks. Despite their numbers, Rolan stood his ground. His strikes were clean, efficient, and merciless. One by one, goblins fell, their formation collapsing beneath his relentless attack. His blade moved like lightning, delivering death with every swing.
Blood painted the hill red. It became a slaughter. The goblins fought with courage, but it only hastened their deaths. They had little stamina, low health—his attacks tore through them like paper. Soon, the entire camp was in ruins. No crystals lay among the bodies, proving they weren't summoned, but were likely born from seeds of evil.
With the camp decimated and corpses scattered, Rolan continued on. The road led him past the other side of the mountain—toward Burrow Falls. He walked the lonely path, winding through the mountain ridges and narrow valleys. Several more red goblins crossed his path. He struck them down with ease. Along the way, he found more seeds of evil and destroyed them without hesitation.
After several miles of travel, he found a quiet riverside and sat to rest. The cool breeze whispered through the leaves, and the river's soft trickle calmed his tired body. After regaining his strength, he resumed his journey. He followed the river, knowing it would lead him to his destination.
The distant thunder of water crashing on stone reached his ears. The ground dampened, and mist began to rise around him. Soon, he stood at the base of towering falls—the legendary Burrow Falls. The mist danced in the air, and lush green ferns swayed beneath the downpour. The droplets nourished them well; their leaves shimmered with life.
Behind the waterfall, hidden yet accessible, was a cave. The entrance yawned wide, soaked in mist and shadow. Rolan stepped through, his boots splashing against the wet cave floor. The overhead stream poured through cracks in the stone, soaking him completely. Still, he pressed on. This was their lair.
Two hobgoblins guarded the entrance. Their armor bore tribal markings that confirmed Rolan's suspicion—this was indeed the base of operations. He didn't hesitate. Charging forward, he met them in battle. One shouted with every swing, while the other taunted between blows. Their strength was considerable, but Rolan's was greater.
After a fierce exchange, he struck them both down. Blood pooled at their feet as their bodies slumped. Rolan searched the corpses and found a bronze key. He grinned. A key meant no time wasted on lockpicking.
He opened the nearby bronze door with a loud clunk. Beyond it lay a cavernous room. A wooden bridge stretched across a raging underground river. Schools of fish leaped from the water below. However, the bridge had been raised on the far side.
He explored further, eliminating goblin sentries along the way. The cave echoed with every step. A misplaced kick knocked over a bucket, and the sound bounced through the stone chamber. Wind whooshed from deep within, and the chill crept through his soaked clothes. Droplets gathered on his eyelashes, and his breath misted in the air.
At last, he found the lever atop a nearby ledge. Pulling it down, he watched as the bridge lowered into place with a wooden groan. He stepped onto it. The wood creaked under his weight, forcing him to pause. Then, with steady resolve, he crossed.
"Sheriek!" came a shriek from the far side. The enemies had been alerted.